


Every way in which I love you

by DandelionDictates



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AUs, Alternate Universe, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Pining, Singer AU, Will add tags as I go, crossposted, musician au, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandelionDictates/pseuds/DandelionDictates
Summary: A collection of Dreamnotfound oneshots crossposted. Requests are open but please be wary that it may take me a while to write them out.Contents:1. Proposal2. Vigilante Dream breaks into George’s house and George offers him shelter3. Part 2 ^4. Masked singer au5. Dream is struggling mentally and George helps6. Part 2 ^
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102





	1. Asshole

It wasn't often that George was nervous around Dream.

More often then not, Dream was the one nervous around George. Nervous when George smiled; nervous when George laughed; nervous when George pulled that pinched, unreadable expression that usually meant he was upset; nervous when George would slip scrawny fingers between his own and squeeze; nervous when George would look at him, really look at him, as though he'd hung the moon and the stars by hand. Dream was always nervous around George.

But, for once, George was nervous around Dream. And Dream knew.

George had been quiet, quieter than usual. At first, Dream figured he really was just tired - they'd both pulled some awfully short nights over the last few weeks and Dream himself felt exhaustion keeping at the corners of his eyes.

But then that same jittery nervousness became permanent long after Dream had certified that they shared a good few nights of restful sleep and Dream began to feel it spread and catch in his own chest.

More than once, Dream caught George curled on the floor with a cat and a kitten in lap - puppy much too excitable to sit still. He was talking to them, Dream knew that he was because he could hear it as he approached, but every time he got close enough to decipher what George was saying, the other would stop.

He asked about it once, late into the night, fresh from a late lasting stream. "Do you talk to the animals, love?" He'd begun and George froze up. No more thumb idly scrolling twitter, no more brown eyes watching through their peripheral and no more nervous fingers drumming.

"No." George denied guiltily at the time, though Dream hadn't the heart to press further on accounts of the sizeable bags beneath his lover's eyes.

With George fast asleep sprawled over his chest and Patches equally so over George's back, Dream let himself wonder when this nervousness began.

There hadn't been any awful streams as of late - not that he was aware of at least. No terribly awkward questions that set off bad moods or stirred rumours, no infuriatingly unsuccessful runs or anything of the like.

In fact, Dream couldn't recall anything that would have made George so lingeringly nervous since the man had spent a day alone with-

Oh.

Yes, he supposed, that may have been it.

Sapnap had begged the two for longer than Dream could remember for another meet-up, possibly since George had moved in in the first place. Then, at the last moment, George and Sapnap decided to spend the day alone together for the first time - they reasoned that they'd meet up again soon after and Dream would be able to join them that time around.

Now that he thought about it, George had been fine before seeing Sapnap. He'd seemed excited even, up early that morning and dressed and ready long before Dream had the chance to finish his cereal. George had pressed a quick kiss to his forehead and then scrambled out of the door.

And ever since he'd gotten back, it was almost as though George could no longer look him in the eye.

Dream found himself back what seemed a hundred years ago, when he'd first seen George in person. George had stared, understandably so, and looked away bashfully every time Dream attempted to catch his eye. It had been funny, even a little charming, at the time but now it was rather worrying. He should be able to catch his boyfriend's gaze without the boy in question glancing away.

It really wasn't all that healthy for Dream to pry his eyes open in order to dwell on what could have possibly happened that day that would have affected George this badly but he didn't really care.

Next, George would start avoiding him, and Dream wasn't going to deal with that.

But, to his surprise, George didn't start avoiding him.

Come next morning - Dream was terribly disappointed to find he let himself fall asleep - George seemed as though nothing had ever happened. He greeted Dream with a sleep-addled smile and even entertained Dream when he began peppering feather-light kisses over the Brit's face.

Dream was simply glad George hadn't rolled away the moment he opened his eyes like he had the day before.

This went on for many morns, George finally letting go of that anxiety and reintegrating himself into their domestic life. Dream was willing to let go of the moment, more than ready to put it behind them, when he finally found its cause.

It was a day like any else. Maybe a little on the slow side, if Dream had to single something out. Midday had rolled around and George had wandered in to peel Dream from his chair and drag him to the kitchen to make lunch.

There was nothing special about lunch either, Dream picked something quick and easy from the cook book that George's mother had bought for them and worked on making it with George at his side. They spoke lowly about simple matters; how editing was going, whether they had any new ideas, when they'd finally reveal that George did know what Dream looked like, that George and Dream were romantically involved and that George had been living with Dream for years now.

They ate in similar conversation too - relaxed and warm and familiar. It was only towards the end, when they'd both finished and were crowded side by side at the sink washing up, that George became antsy once more.

"Dream!" George shrieked, staring down at his soaked shirt, to the backdrop of Dream's wheezing.

"Oh, come on, you were zoned out again! I had to!" Dream reasoned, threading fingers through one of George's belt loops and pulling him closer. George huffed and flicked the water coating his hands at his boyfriend's face. He then cupped his cheeks with a dopey smile, watching as Dream scrunched his nose.

It was now or never, he supposed.

"Clay, I..." George began. "I need to talk to you."

"Aren't you already?" Dream asked before realising that George was serious and changing his answer. "I mean- yeah, of- of course. What do you need to talk about?"

"These last few years... have been the best time of my life because of you. I'm not good with words, there's a reason you're an author and I'm not, but you're everything I've ever wanted and more. You're my best friend and... and the greatest thing to have ever happened to me."

To say Dream was confused would be an impossibly large understatement. While it was lovely to hear these sentiments from George - so lovely that Dream could feel the knot in his throat and the burning in his eyes - Dream wasn't entirely certain why he was hearing them.

Until George finally pulled his left hand from his pocket and turned to his taller, taking a deep breath.

Until George lowered himself onto one knee.

"And I know now that, this life with you? That's what I want forever, if you want it too." Yeah, Dream was definitely crying now.

"Clay, will you marry me?" George shakily opened the small velvet box in hand to display a simple, silver ring with their anniversary engraved on the inside.

Dream found himself choking around the tears cascading down the curve of his cheeks. He couldn't breathe, clutching desperately at the front of his hoodie as though it would alleviate the pressure in his lungs. 

"No."

George moved with the weight of the word, hands faltering and falling slightly. "What?" And now George felt he couldn't breathe either, but for all different reasons. The single little word had pierced a hole in him, all life trickling slowly from it until he was utterly hollow on the floor.

"George, I can't marry you." Dream stuttered. George was all too busy in his heartbreak to realise that it looked as though Dream was looking for something.

"Why not?" The shell that was once George managed, barely above a whisper.

"Because you're going to marry me." 

And, with that, Dream joined George on one knee, pulling an almost identical box from his pocket.

At first, George backhanded Dream. Hard.

Then he grabbed a fistful of the man's hoodie and kissed him, equally as bruising.

And, fuck, now he was crying too.

"You're such an asshole." George breathed, finally pulling away enough to speak.

Dream grinned tearfully. "But you'll marry me anyways?" He asked nervously, pressing each letter into George's skin with warm kisses.

"But I'll marry you anyways." George eventually agreed, letting Dream take his hand and slip the ring onto his finger before doing just the same.


	2. Unhelpful Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By God, George wishes he’d gone to sleep when he said he would because then he’d be able to pretend he didn’t just hear something crash it’s way into his kitchen.

George was in a bit of a predicament.

There was no easy way to admit to your best friend that the reason you've been rejecting his calls, avoiding him and actively stopping him from visiting you entirely was because you were harbouring a very charming vigilante within your home. It wasn't exactly a situation that George ever thought he'd find himself in, and yet here he was.

But let's rewind a little, to how George came to his not-so-little issue. 

It wasn't by choice. George didn't just wake up one morning and decide you know what? I'm going to adopt a criminal today!

Well, not exactly at least.

It was a regular Tuesday evening for George; slow, relatively boring and spent streaming until the early hours. There was nothing special or particularly peculiar about it, not even as he desperately searched for something that was. Just another Tuesday like any other Tuesday - he was pretty sure it was a Tuesday at least.

But the day didn't really matter. Nor did the hour, but only because George didn't really bother to check and wouldn't remember if he did.

What did matter was that it was especially dark, all lights already off within his home, when things began going south. 

He'd brushed the noise off at first, deciding that either the kitten or the puppy had knocked or broken something and handed the responsibility of dealing with that off to tomorrow morning's - or later this morning, he supposed - George. 

But then the noise persisted, only growing louder, and George figured that he should at least check to make sure both animals were alive before procrastinating cleaning their mess. He'd ended the stream some few minutes ago and so turned his monitors to sleep mode before rolling back his chair and standing with a stretch. It was only half-way through plodding towards the sound that George realised that no animal in his home, other than maybe himself, would be able to make such a racket.

There was clicking, clanging, general scuffle and an odd, ssssshhh noise. It sounded, by all terrible conclusions, like a very large, distressed creature. 

It sounds, George decides, like something I really don't want to deal with right now.

Despite every sane bone in his body - which wasn't a lot of bones, but I digress - screaming at him to just turn around and go the hell back to bed or maybe call the police, George carefully reached around for whatever he could arm himself with and continued walking. His fingers grazed the handle of a well-loved umbrella and he was quick to snatch it up, brandishing it as he crept into the kitchen and towards the back door.

And it looks, George decides, like something I really don't want to deal with right now either.

Whatever it was was hunched, one hand desperately trying to detach George's dog's jaw and the other clutched around what looked to be a very long leg. It's silhouette was drenched in black, though that may simply be the night's darkness, and surrounded in a horrible clutter that George recognised as his own.

It only took a split second for George to weigh his options: keep quiet and pray the creature didn't see or hear him or call out and hope he was strong enough to fight it off, should he need to.

George chose hidden option number three; creep up behind the figure and knock it the fuck out.

It worked relatively well, if you asked him.

But, well, then he had an entirely different issue. He then had an unconscious thing on his kitchen floor and no sure-fire way to deal with it. Not safely at least.

He decided, with an embarrassing sense of stupidity, that identifying it would probably be a good first step. And so he strode, rather calmly mind you, to the light switch on the wall and flicked it on.

"Nope." And then he flicked it off again.

Because well, with the kitchen light off, George could pretend that he hadn't just knocked out a fully grown human man who had evidently broken into his home.

He wasn't even certain how he didn't figure it out earlier - there were no bears or big cats in London that it could have been. The closest they had was the old guy down the street - and he wouldn't just break in like that unless it was a national emergency.

So, now, George was tasked with somehow disposing of a very alive, very unconscious and very large human being that was likely dangerous. Wonderful.

Well, his ever loyal companion was already making a start, ferociously tearing and pulling at the man's pant leg when George flicked the lights on again. For a moment, George smiled before realising that he had no idea where the other had been and promptly pulled the puppy away.

"What do we do?" He murmured, raking his eyes up the black-clad man and to his half-hidden face. "We can't just leave him here, he's going to wake up."

Despite himself, George used the end of his umbrella to carefully push the hood back and off of the man's face. His excuse, should he need one, would be the possible need to identify him in a line-up.

He didn't look dangerous at all. Much the opposite, even. 

He looked young, cheeks still softly rounded with youth. He had a sun kissed tan - foreign then - and dirty blond-brown hair that was tousled over long, fair lashes. George could even make out a ruddiness in the man's cheeks and the hints of freckles across his nose.

Great, the man was barely even a man. Had he been shorter, George would certainly pass him as a late-teen, at best. Somehow, that made things so much worse for George.

"This is a bad idea." He decided, and the puppy still cradled in his arm seemed to agree.

George did it anyways, because he's stupid.

It took embarrassingly long to haul the man (Dream, George had nicknamed him, because that was what he was interrupting and keeping George from currently. Definitely not because George may have found him vaguely attractive in some sick way because that would be both crazy and stupid, two things George most certainly was not) over and onto George's couch. So long that George was very nervous that Dream may regain consciousness before he had the chance to secure his own safety.

But he did, eventually, manage to lay Dream across the couch and swaddle him tightly in a myriad of blankets, creating a mock straitjacket for the other to stew in. He then went around checking the locks on his doors and actually closing and locking his windows after figuring that Dream had gotten in through a partially open back window. 

He settled, after that, as far from Dream as he could be while staying in the same room, with as many energy drinks as he could fit into his scrawny arms. He kept his trusty umbrella and loyal dog at his feet too, prepared to wait until Dream woke up and either established that he wasn't a threat or got the fuck out of George's house. 

It was an awkward standoff, one unconscious and the other not far from being the same, but George was glad to find he had prior warning to Dream's awakening and was able to prepare himself. The prior warning came in the form of a low, pained groan that tumbled from the bundle with a certain gravel to it that told George he would be utterly done for in a fight. 

"Who are you?" George seemingly accused, aiming his umbrella threateningly, the moment that Dream's eyes cracked open.

"Wh.. what?" Dream asked in a lightly accented voice and George watched as he shifted before realising that he was a little... trapped. "Where am I?"

"I asked first." George countered pettily, now very aware of the wide, round eyes that had landed on him. "Who are you?"

Dream simply took his captor in for a moment. He looked, slow and sluggish, from George's bare feet, over cheesy and obviously old pyjamas, up to sharp, mesmerising brown eyes. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You're in no position not to." George didn't mean to sound so harsh but he was also rather proud of how badass that made him feel. Judging by Dream's face, he thought it was badass too but wasn't ready to admit it.

"Fine." Dream relented, figuring George was right. "I'm Clay. And you are?"

"George." George answered readily before realising how stupid of an idea that was considering this man was only in his house because he broke in. "Why were you in my house?"

"I couldn't keep running with this." Clay spoke tactically, nodding down the length of his body. When George simply pulled a confused expression, he elaborated. "My ankle."

"What did you do?" George questioned, beginning to lower his umbrella but keeping it clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

"I decided it would be fun to try and cut my foot off with a rusty saw." Clay stated, deadpanned, and George's eyes widened in shock. Clay laughed, a loud, warm noise that quickly became a wheezing whistle. George wouldn't admit that he found that rather too endearing. "I sprained it, George. You're so gullible."

George rolled his eyes with a pout. He wasn't gullible, he just didn't know a thing about the guy in front of him. For all he knew, Clay could be the kind of person to hack off his own limbs for fun. "You sprained your ankle while running so you decided to break into my house?"

"Oh my god." Clay chuckled. "Running from the police, George. Please catch up, carrying this conversation is tiring." He stated, as though that was the most normal admission to have.

"I'm sorry that I don't usually have people breaking into my house at ungodly hours of the morning, Clay, I'll make sure to remember for next time!" George huffed. "Why were you running from the police?" 

"Murder."

"What?!" George shrieked.

"I'm joking! Calm down!" Clay wheezed and George decided, rather childishly, to re-nickname him nightmare.

"I didn't know that! You're American!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Doesn't every American have a gun?"

"Oh come on, George, you can't-" Staring at the dull, pointed end of George's umbrella millimetres from his face, Clay changed his answer "You're serious."

"Why were you running from the police, Clay?" George asked once more, trying to sound badass once more. Clay was silent for a moment before finally answering.

"Theft."

George nodded slowly, waiting for some kind of catch or something. When he didn't see one, he pressed forward. "What did you steal?"

"Your heart." Clay winked.

"Oh for f-" George threw his hands into the air, knocking the umbrella against Clay's forehead in the process and almost apologising. Clay's wheezing laugh, squeezing the air from his lungs, assured George that he was fine and didn't need an apology.

It was a wonder, George realised with a flush, that he ever agreed to let Clay stay - especially since he never did find out what it was Clay was running for or from. Now that he thought about it, George wasn't certain he'd ever actually allowed Clay to stay - not verbally. Clay had simply untangled himself from those blankets once he was sure George's guard was low enough and decided to make George's home his own.

All very suddenly, George was brought back to the present day by a hammering at his door. "I know you're in there, Gogy! I'll wait here all day if I have to." Nick sang.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :]
> 
> Requests are open!!
> 
> Yours,  
> Dandelion


	3. Helps Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the last chapter

"Fucking- why are you so heavy? Move!" George whisper-shouted, shoving at Clay's back.

"To where, George? The corner of the fucking room? He's going to see me anyways!" Clay whisper-shouted in return but let George continue shoving him anyways.

"To the cupboard- closet- whatever! Just get in, idiot!" With one especially hard shove, Clay got the hint and stuffed himself into the closet. He barely had a moments time to breathe before George slammed the door shut on him and rushed from the room to answer the pounding at his front door. 

George huffed, not clocking his tousled appearance before he swung the door open. That would be the beginning of his slow, excruciatingly painful demise.

"What do you want, Nick?"

"I can't come visit my best bud?" Nick asked innocently, taking in George's mussed hair and rumpled shirt with a raised brow. He let it slide, packing the knowledge away for later, and pushed past George into the house. 

"No."

"You wound me, babe." Nick brushed off, heading straight to George's kitchen and beginning throwing open cupboards to find something worth eating.

"What are you actually here for?" George asked after watching Nick take a box of cereal, situate himself up on the counter, open his phone and begin eating the dry cereal by the handful.

"You've been avoiding me, dude. Wanted to make sure you were still alive." Oh, the irony.

"I'm not avoiding you." Yes I am.

"Yes you are!"

"I'm not!" I am.

"Oh, okay, so you're just leaving me on seen, not picking up my calls and haven't streamed or uploaded alone, let alone with me, in ages, right." Nick rolled his eyes, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Fine!" George took one of Nick's hand from his phone, pressing Nick's fingers to his pulse. "There, I'm alive and not avoiding you, you can go now."

"You're so mean, George." Nick pouted, slipping from the counter. For a moment, George thought he was in the clear. Then, Nick dropped himself onto the couch and George almost audibly groaned.

"What now?" George asked instead.

"I wanna hang out with you!" Nick said innocently but George saw straight through that faux act. 

"Nick, you haven't got off your phone since you got here." George pointed out, crossing his arms. Nick looked up from his phone, locking eyes. The two remained in place, staring, waiting for the other to back down.

Finally, Nick huffed and lifted his phone into George's eye-line, switching it off and raising his eyebrows in one. He then dropped it to the couch between them. "Happy?"

"Not as happy as I'd be if you left."

"You love me." Nick waved off, searching around for George's remote.

"No I don't." George countered, picking the remote up from where it had slid down the side of the couch cushion and handing it to Nick.

"Yes you do. What film do you wanna watch?" George sighed, having forgotten - in all the scuffle and argument - why he was so adamant on having Nick leave so fast in the first place.

"I don't care." George shrugged, standing to go make them some popcorn. "Pick whatever." Nick hummed, doing just that.

"I'm gonna go get blankets." He then announced, already disappeared off down the corridor. George didn't bother answering until

Oh fuck.

Nick was going to go get blankets.

Blankets that were in the closet.

Blankets that were in the closet with Clay.

Nick was going to go get blankets from the closet with Clay in.

Oh fuck.

"Nick, wait!" George tried, dashing after Nick in the hopes of stopping him.

"Uh, George?" Too late. "Why is there a man in your closet?" Wonderful.

Clay waved a sheepish hand from awkwardly stuffed into George's closet, Nick looking between them suspiciously.

"Nick, this is..." Think, George, think! "my new roommate, Clay! Clay, say hi to my friend Nick." He rushed out, offering a hand to yank Clay from the closet.

"Hi Nick." Clay greeted, brushing himself down and sorting his hair before reaching his hand out for Nick to shake.

"Hi." Nick greeted slowly, looking from Clay's hand up to his flushed face and nervous smile. He knew exactly what was going on here. With a shit-eating grin, he shook Clay's hand. "So, what were you doing in George's closet?"

"Uh," Clay glanced to George with a panicked expression that simply screamed 'help me'. George raised his brows sternly and tilted his head minutely to gesture back at Nick. "I was looking for my hoodie and got trapped."

George almost face-palmed, Nick's knowing smile only spreading. "Right. No luck then?" Nick asked, glancing pointedly at Clay's thin white shirt.

"Uh, no. I was just going to wait for George to let me out and ask him. George?" All attention shifted to George and he had to fight the flush climbing his neck, pointedly looking into Clay's eyes but that didn't help an awful lot.

"It's probably in the wash, just use one of my old ones." George pushed past the two to the closet, eager to get this situation over with. He threw various blankets over his shoulder at Nick before pulling out a worn, warm yellow hoodie with a silly smiley across the front. "That should be big enough. You can keep it, I never liked that shade of yellow."

"George... this is green." Clay pointed out slowly, looking at the thick fabric in his hands.

"Same thing." George brushed off, walking down the hallway to the kitchen swiftly, using the excuse of having to retrieve their popcorn.

"So," Nick began and Clay turned to him, gathering the hoodie in his hands with intent to pull it on. "How long have you two been together?" Clay fumbled, arms halfway into the sleeves, and flushed a pretty pink.

"What?"

"I'm not stupid." Nick laughed, patting Clay's shoulder. "George disappears, suddenly doesn't want me coming over anymore, and when I come to visit he answers the door all disheveled and suddenly has a roommate who is the definition of his type? Seems Gogy got himself a boyfriend and didn't want to tell me."

"I- we're not together." Clay finally choked out, pulling the hoodie on over his head, and then "I'm his type?"

Nick couldn't help his laugh. "Tall, tan and handsome with a nice smile? Definitely. Do you like minecraft by any chance?" Clay nodded sheepishly.

"George won't play with me any more because I'm better than him." Once again, Nick found himself laughing.

"Everyone is." He assured before beginning the walk to the sitting room. "Well, if you and George aren't already together then you will be soon." With that, Nick threw himself over the back of the couch and settled against one of the arms, claiming a fluffy orange blanket and cocooning himself in it. Clay watched him, puzzled, but couldn't help the small smile that etched its way onto his lips.

"If you're going to join us then sit down. You look dumb standing there smiling to yourself." George chided as he wandered in with two bowls of popcorn. Clay did as told, pointedly ignoring Nick's teasing chuckle, and settled against the other arm of the couch.

George dropped himself between the two, shoving a bowl into Nick's lap. "I didn't know you'd be watching too so we'll have to share." He told Clay but kept his eyes stubbornly on the screen. Clay just nodded stupidly.

Nick, ever the meddling genius, began to steal and pile blankets on and around himself until there was only one left. A thin but adequately soft one that he threw at George. "Oops, looks like you'll have to share this too."

George rolled his eyes. What Nick didn't know was that, while that blanket was the thinnest, it was also the largest. He easily spread it over he and Clay's laps, placing the bowl of popcorn between them. Nick huffed and set the film to play.

What film Nick had picked didn't really matter when all George could think about was the fact that Clay was beside him. Not in the way that you may think, however. George wasn't lost to love-filled fantasies for the man at his side. No, he couldn't brush the fact that, at the end of the day, Clay was on the run.

And Nick wasn't exactly the best at keeping secrets.

Clay, however, was distracted for the very reason you may assume.

It wasn't his fault that he had always been a little on the soft-hearted side. And it certainly wasn't his fault that he'd found that George was everything he could ever wish for. He wasn't looking to fall in love when he squeezed himself through the window of the first house he'd spotted when he couldn't run more than four long strides before he'd crumple to the ground again.

When he'd woken up, swaddled in possibly the most comfortable confines ever, in George's house, he was certain that he was done for. The man that had brandished an umbrella as though it was the most dangerous weapon he could have been holding would call the police and turn him in immediately.

But then he didn't.

Despite his exterior, George was possibly the kindest, most open-hearted person there ever was. He'd never said that Clay could stay but it was wordless in the way that George went out of his way to keep Clay safe; slowly but surely handed off piles of old clothes because 'you can't just wear the same thing all the time'; began buying more food to account for Clay and even slowly began trusting Clay more and more until he was more than happy to allow him free reign whilst he was out.

George wasn't verbal with his kindness, wasn't verbal with his care, but it was clear in his actions and Clay rather adored that about him. 

It had been hard at first, to trust that George wouldn't turn him in. Neither man knew the other at all so George's non-verbal way of communicating had been hard to deal with. They shuffled around each other in an awkward little dance, every step working to move them closer until the very moment they were at now: standing flush, back to back.

"Shuffle up, George, stop hogging all the space." Nick whined, shoving at George with his feet until George was pressed warmly down Clay's side.

And it seemed all they needed to make that final turn face to face was an awfully meddlesome friend.

Because, when Clay shifted his arm to drape loosely around George, he could blame it on making their forced closeness more comfortable. And when George rested lightly into Clay's side, he could blame it on Nick's toes still digging into his hip.

But, when the movie was over and Nick had long since left, neither had an upstanding excuse for why they kept curled against each other. And, as George stacked up empty bowls and walked them into the kitchen, neither had an upstanding excuse for why Clay trailed after him. And, when George had finished cleaning up, neither had an upstanding excuse for why they simply stood, a step away from one another, and stared.

"I'm in love with you, George."

It was the barest of whispers that lingered in the air between them. Standing on the very spot they'd met, beneath the window in George's kitchen, not far from George's back door.

"And I know that I can't ask you to love me back because you don't know me. Not all of me."

And George found himself trying to decide whether he wanted to have heard the words or not. It would be easy for him to claim that Clay was simply speaking too lowly for him to understand.

"But in these last few months that you've protected me, I've fallen in love with you."

But that would be all too cruel. To have Clay bare his heart so rawly under any circumstances and to simply pretend he hadn't heard because he was too afraid.

"And I thought you deserved that truth, at least."

But he wasn't afraid of what you might think. He wasn't afraid of what Clay may have done to lead him to George. He was afraid of what he may do to drive Clay away. 

Clay reached an open hand into the space between them.

George took it.

Clay placed a tentative hand on George's cheek.

George pressed into it.

Clay leant, ever slowly, into the seemingly endless gap between them.

George kissed him.

And, as Clay loved George, George loved Clay. All other issues they'd work through together when they reached them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really dislike this chapter but something is better than nothing :] maybe I’ll come back and rewrite it on day.
> 
> Requests are open!!
> 
> Yours,  
> Dandelion


	4. Starboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A masked singer au except George is the one with the mask this time.

The way the concert hall quaked was exhilarating. The walls rumbled and the floor shook beneath hundreds upon thousands of shuffling shoes. All sound reverberated tenfold and rang in George's ears in the most intoxicating way.

Lips pressed to the mic, mask resting low on the bridge of his nose, he pressed his heart down small into each word and threw it with careless precision into the crowd before him.

Up here, on the spacious stage of the last location of his first tour, George felt utterly and truly free once more.

Something warmed in his heart, pressing his lungs open and seeping from his pores to wrap around the room, incasing it in that same kindling flame. It pressed and pulled, shaping the smiles that curled on his stars' faces, crinkling small crow's feet into the corners of their eyes and even gracing a select few with dimples of varying depth.

The words he sang mattered not - It could be gibberish, for all that they cared - It was the way in which he sang them that had caught minds and hearts alike.

The way the verses were an extension of himself that he'd given off to the world as a gift to the lost, found, loved and unloved alike to cherish and to find themselves in.

George felt he'd come a far way from the boy he once was. A million lifetimes ago, he'd believed that George and StarBoy were eternally opposing people, of whom could never mingle or become one.

And it had taken time, a painfully long amount of it, for George to learn otherwise. For George to learn that, despite StarBoy's confidence outweighing his own indefinitely, they both had the same curvature to their grin and crinkle to their eyes; the same bubbling laugh and bashful giggles; the same ever expressive hands, spelling out their words with large, sweeping gestures; the same symphony in their soul; the same rhythm in their heartbeat.

At the end of the day StarBoy was George and George was StarBoy, he knew that now.

StarBoy was still the same nerdy little student that played minecraft until the early hours of the morning with his two friends; the same student who'd never once missed a class or an assignment and certainly never stepped out of line.

Equally George was still the same overconfident singer with an unearthly talent; the same phenomenon who thrives on stage and in the spotlight.

And it wasn't just George who'd had to learn this. When the secret had been slipped, not a soul believed it. Not even Dream or Sapnap.

He'd hoped, the barest hope, that Dream might recognise his best friend in his celebrity crush but he'd been the first to deny it.

But that was all behind them now, and George was glad for it.

He'd made that realisation that George and StarBoy were one, then those closest to him and now it was time for the world to know.

There was one more song to go to close off the night and George decided that now, right before he began, was the perfect moment.

"These last few years have been hard, haven't they?" StarBoy threw the question into the crowd, receiving a resounding sea of shouts in response. "Raise your hand if you've been through some shit in these last few years." He watched as thousands of hands were raised to the ceiling, matching his own. "It's been rough, hasn't it?" He laughed, stepping back from the mic stand for a second with nerves.

"But it gets better." Once again, the hall erupted in agreeing cries and StarBoy found a laugh bubbling from his chest once more. "You wanna know how I know it gets better?" He leant past the mic, cupping a hand around his ear in showmanship.

Content that he'd riled the crowd enough, StarBoy shook the last of his nerves from his fingers, rolling his neck and setting his mind on his goal. "I was a real nerd in school. The quiet kid with straight A's, everyone knows one." He nodded at the crowds agreement.

"And, one day, it slipped out that I was StarBoy - I had a recording on my phone," He waited for the crowd to calm "except, people didn't believe it. They didn't think I could be StarBoy."

"They all thought I was some stalker. I couldn't be StarBoy, I wasn't good enough." StarBoy laughed at the resounding boos that echoed. "Even my best friends, one of which I had a crush on, didn't believe that it was me." He leaned in close to the mic "Sad right?"

"But, I know it gets better," He stepped back a few strides, twisting to peak backstage and catch Dream's eye. He beckoned him with a single, crooked finger before striding back up to the mic.

"The best friend that I had a crush on." StarBoy announced as Dream joined him, rolling his eyes and smiling fondly.

Dream captured StarBoy's hip, twisting him bodily until they were face to face. With his remaining hand, he reached deft fingers into StarBoy's hair and unclasped his mask at the back. He carefully grasped the bottom of the mask, watching StarBoy's eyes with a single question. 

StarBoy nodded, the barest movement, and Dream lifted the mask from his face, tossing it carelessly elsewhere. He then used thumb and curled forefinger to tilt George's chin up and kissed him, deep and warm and loving.

The cheers they received were deafening, shaking the very foundation of the building as George snaked arms up to rest lazily over Dream's shoulders.

When they pulled apart, George lingered a moment before leaning dramatically back towards the mic. He spoke in a hoarse voice. "Now my long term boyfriend."

Once again, the pair were bombarded by welcomed shrieks. George dropped his forehead to Dream's chest with elation, feeling his laugh rather than hearing it.

And if they were the international talk for weeks to come, George would boast that it was because of his own beautiful face over anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are open!!
> 
> Yours,  
> Dandelion


	5. Whatever Makes It Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it’s all you need to have someone by your side in your darkest hour. George is more than happy to be Dream’s someone.

There was a weight in his lungs immeasurable and an aching behind his eyes unbearable. He felt heavy and cold and detached in the most horrifically all-encasing way.

Despite effort after effort, his body remained immovable. It anchored heavily to the mattress beneath him, duvet that partially covered it providing no help in thawing the ice within. The frigid temperature in his core felt as though it were seeping through the pores in his skin and diffusing about the room.

He hadn't the effort to go and turn the air conditioning off, nor the effort to pull the sheets up from where they were draped over his legs. The cold sweat that had formed a sheen over tan skin and drenched through thin clothing proved that the effort would be worthless and only cause further problem.

It felt pathetically degrading to be able to do little more than blink and breathe all because he'd let his own mind get the better of him; let that horrible dark shroud seep over his eyes and blind him from reality.

A thick, sickly guilt settled in his lungs like tar as he listened to George's echoing footsteps pass past his door, only weighing them heavier.

George had come to visit, had come to see him. George had taken the nine hour flight to come and be with him in person, to see the sights and to spend time with his best friend and yet Dream was selfishly holing himself away in silent solitude.

He hadn't the heart to tell George that he ought to just go home; that sometimes Dream was simply like this and he likely wouldn't be useful for the duration of George's stay. He hadn't the heart to tell George that he'd wasted his time.

A dark, dismal voice told him that George already knew.

George was so bright, blindingly so; so happy; so kind; so uplifting, even when he was spouting insults. He was warm in the way he called Dream stupid; soft in the way he'd excitedly display every moment that his kitten decided to accompany him; quiet in the way he mothered Dream when Dream had flown over to visit.

That only served to make Dream feel worse. 

George had been such a good host when he'd flown over on a whim. He'd made the house feel like home, had never made Dream do any chores for himself, had even offered to bring his fan down from the loft when Dream had offhandedly mentioned missing the ambient sound.

He'd had a nervous energy to dispel, sure, but he'd still put so much silent care into assuring the Dream enjoyed his first time in rainy old England. And here Dream was, entirely ruining George's first time in Florida because he was too weak to get past the cruel commentary of his conscience.

He didn't deserve George at all, let alone to have his company. He had half the mind to buy him a connecting flight to Texas - he'd likely have more fun with Sapnap than he'd have with Dream in this state.

But that wasn't the root of it and Dream knew it. He wasn't just upset over being a bad host. He was upset over being a bad friend - a bad more-than-friend if he was willing to risk spiralling.

Two soft knocks on his door roused him from that train of thought, however. After failing to do little more than twitch his fingers in attempts to get up and open the door, he instead let out a low, rumbling hum. George peaked tentatively around the door.

"Hey, just wanted to ask whether you wanted any dinner." He asked with a lopsided smile and then, as though it would entice Dream, he added in a singsong tone "I made pizza."

Dream tried, he really did. He tried desperately to tell George that pizza sounded amazing right about now; to ask him whether he wanted to watch a movie or play some minecraft or even decide to ditch the pizza to be reheated another day and go out for dinner instead. What came out, however, was a disinterested and frankly sad hum of denial.

He could tell that George was disappointed and it tugged harshly on the threads around his heart and in the back of his mind. He couldn't do anything though as George sighed and slipped from the room. Nothing but pray that George would forgive him some day.

He lay still for what felt like hours but could have equally been minutes, mulling over and pulling apart his flaws. He'd always been overly critical, sometimes harshly so, Dream knew that but it didn't make it any harder to deal with.

Before he had the chance to convince himself that cutting ties with George would be the kindest option, so that George didn't have to deal with this overly attached burden, George was opening the door once more. 

This time, however, he strolled in with a sense of self-surety and placed a plate of haphazardly arranged pizza and dip on the bedside table before disappearing again. Within moments, he'd returned with a can of carbonated melon milk - George still hated the stuff but Sapnap had successfully gotten Dream hooked - and a can of coke, placing each beside the plate. On his third trip in, he closed the door behind himself and strode directly towards the bed that Dream occupied, laptop and Patches cradled in his arms.

He plopped Patches delicately onto Dream's chest before sliding into bed beside him and opening the laptop. Dream felt something pull inside him when it opened to a half-edited video they'd recorded over a week ago.

Figuring that simply staring at George wasn't going to get him any answers, Dream managed a confused little noise that formed in the back of his throat. 

"You looked like you could use some company." George answered in that ever nonchalant way he seemingly always did. Dream swore, to this day, that he'd never know what went on behind those cloudy-brown eyes of his. "Want to watch a movie?"

Dream almost shook his head; almost turned to his side wordlessly and blocked George out for his sake before realising how much of George's effort doing so would waste. He was willing to indulge himself if it meant making George's time worthwhile.

He nodded softly and then realised just how easy that had been. After almost hours in a near paralysed state, he only needed mere moments of George's company to begin to thaw the still in his bones.

"The Hobbit or Harry Potter?" George asked and, bless his golden heart, held one finger out to represent The Hobbit and two to represent Harry Potter. Dream was able to lift a single finger and it was all worthwhile for George's blinding smile. "Sounds good."

It didn't take long for George to set the movie up, pushing the laptop to sit low on his thighs so that Dream could see it properly too and placing the plate of pizza in his lap above it. He nestled the can of melon milk into the covers between them wordlessly.

Dream felt rather pathetically close to crying. He'd done nothing for George, nothing but catch an Uber with him from the airport and wish him a goodnight with a tight, lingering hug that first night, and yet George was more than willing to do so much for him. When George's right hand came to settle in Dream's frankly greasy hair, idly playing with the strands, he felt himself crumble and let himself cry.

And George was ever calm as he shifted everything from the bed once more, even gently shifting Patches off of Dream's chest. Dream found himself able to sit up just enough to slump into George when he twisted back with open arms. George held him, a solid and comforting weight, as Dream let out shuddering sobs that ultimately stained George's shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" George asked softly once Dream had fallen silent and limp against him.

"I don't think I can put it into words." Whether his voice was hoarse with tears or disuse, he wasn't all too certain.

"That's fine, we can keep watching movies if you want to." George reassured, smoothing his hand down the back of Dream's creased shirt. 

"Whatever makes it okay."

"You do." Dream mumbled. "You make it okay."

George smiled, warm and kind, and pressed his nose to the skin just behind Dream's ear. "Then I'll stay."

And he made good on his word. He stayed until Dream released his hold and adjusted to sit more comfortably, pressed against his side; he stayed until Dream finally took an offered slice of pizza; he stayed until Dream helped him finish the plate and had finished his melon milk too; he stayed until the end of the movie.

George stayed all the way up until Dream fell asleep curled against his side, thoroughly warmed, and then he stayed some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are open!!
> 
> Yours,  
> Dandelion


	6. Is What I’ll Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the last chapter

Dream felt, frankly, disgusting when he woke up. His breath tasted stale and vaguely of last nights pizza; he could feel where sweat had dried over the days, adhering his clothes to his body and his greasy hair to his forehead. He hadn't noticed it as it happened.

But it was all worthwhile because George had stayed. George was there, peacefully asleep, right where Dream had left him the evening before. He looked something like a dream that Dream had had many a time in the nights before this. Hazy in the morning light, lines blurred and features warmed with restfulness. George's lashes feathered kindly over the swell of his cheeks; they were long, dark and wonderfully curled. How Dream hadn't noticed them more before, he wasn't certain.

His lips were softly pouted open from where his cheek was pressed tight to Dream's pillow, a dusty pink in colour and vaguely chapped from where he'd been breathing huffed little breaths through his mouth. His hair was nothing short of a bird's nest atop his head, mussed and sprouting in every which way. He had the ghost of lines pressed into his skin from the folds of fabric beneath but Dream found he rather liked the way the long-sleep lines looked. 

George looked nothing short of painfully handsome, as much as Dream desperately pushed such a thought to the base of his heart. To think like that would be to risk all that he had with George.

But, as George slowly and, frankly, gracelessly came to wakefulness, Dream wondered whether George would ever have it in mind and heart to have those thoughts about him. Whether George had ever taken a moment, in the short time they'd been together in England or even possibly in the many video calls that followed, to simply take in Dream for all that he was. Whether George ever watched and wondered whether, if he were to take Dream's cheek into hand, he'd be able to feel the way it flushed beneath his fingers.

Dream felt the shadow of self hatred shroud those thought's entirely, assuring him that George could never and would never see him in such a light. Especially not after the pitiful state in which he'd seen Dream fall involuntarily into shortly after he'd arrived.

"Good morning." George spoke as soon as the words reached him, stretching out long before curling back close to where Dream had had him before. He rather liked the warmth that radiated from Dream's sun-kissed skin.

"Morning." Dream managed, voice hoarse and wobbling. It was in that moment that he realised the way his head ached and eyes itched. 

George was slow to open his eyes, perfectly content to stay in that bed for days because at least then he new that Dream was alive. He knew, however, that he really ought to make the effort to pull Dream from this room, even if it was just far enough and just long enough to get him clean.

"How are you feeling?" He began, reaching stiff fingers to rub the bleary sleep from his eyes. Either he didn't notice or simply didn't care that his hand almost brushed the tip of Dream's nose in the process.

"Disgusting." Dream answered honestly and it was all George could do to smile.

"I'll go run a bath." He yawned, sitting up. It took Dream a long second to realise what he'd said.

"Wait, George," And then Dream's hand was around George's wrist. It was a soft, gentle grip and easily escapable, just enough pressure for George to stop and look back. "You don't have to, I can do it myself."

George smiled, carefully prying himself free just enough to to place his hand in Dream's instead. He squeezed it once, soft and gentle. "I know."

And, with that, George slipped from his grasp and the room. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of water running. Nor was it long before he pushed himself up on trembling arms, heady with nausea. Though still cold and hollow, he felt warmer than before and certainly more moveable.

By the time he'd pried himself from his bed and onto weakened legs, stumbling to pick up the first set of clean clothes that he could find, George had finished running the bath. Dream made his way over heavily, never wanting to waste George's time or effort. George smiled, ever kind, when Dream reached the bathroom and carefully pulled the hoodie from over Dream's arm.

At Dream's confused look, George decided to explain. "My mum would always put my hoodie in the tumble drier before I wore it when I had a bad day - it makes it warm and soft." The memory was something George held close to his heart. Dream nodded, watching as George walked from the room with his green hoodie held delicately, as though it were something endlessly precious.

As much as Dream forbid himself from thinking about it, what he and George had going wasn't friends. It hadn't been since that tense moment beneath the streetlights of a London road whose name had long since left Dream, steps away from his hotel, when they'd gotten so very painfully close to finally closing that gap between them. 

They'd stared wordlessly, neither wanting to be the one to end the day with a goodbye, illuminated only by the warm yellow of the lamp above. Dream wasn't even all that certain of what had happened, wanting not to dwell on it for fear of losing what little sanity he had left. Somebody had glanced, eyes flickering down, and then someone had leant - that's the extent of what Dream had let himself remember. It had ended with the barest graze of lips, the clicking creak of a door opening and then a quick, flushed goodbye. 

The next day, they acted as though nothing had happened. The only indication Dream had that it wasn't some cruel memory of a fantasy was the underlying tension that now sat comfortably along their shoulders.

So Dream was equally very surprised and not really that surprised at all when George returned to the bathroom, finally having the courtesy to look nervous and bashful. He wasn't exactly sure how to word his offer, still not certain at all of the extent of Dream's own feelings for him nor how something like this may effect the fragile mental state that he was in. He attempted instead to communicate what he wished to say wordlessly.

What George attempted to extend to Dream was kind and warm and chaste. It was shy and so terrifyingly intimate that Dream really didn't blame his friend (could they really call each other that anymore?) for not being able to say the words. He instead nodded softly, cheeks a wonderful cherry red, and waited for George to turn away.

George perched himself on the end of the bathtub, vigilantly watching the wall in order to give Dream his privacy. At two tentative taps to the back of his hand, he turned back around to face Dream's back. Despite their childish nervousness at Dream's state of undress, the silence that lingered was neither tense nor suffocating.

George rolled up his hoodie sleeves and placed shaking hands onto Dream's broad shoulders, pushing ever softly until he could softly cup water in hand and pour it over dirty blond hair. Once it was all adequately soaked, he slow pushed Dream back up into sitting and reached for the shampoos, picking out a scent he'd distinctly remembered from the very first time he'd been in Dream's arms. He worked deft fingers through Dream's hair in long, gentle movements, carefully lathering it completely and massaging against Dream's scalp.

Dream's head grew heavy in his hands, relaxing with every little circle of George's thumbs behind each ear. "You don't have to tell me anything," George began "but I'm here to listen, Dream." With that, he softly pressed Dream back down to wash out the shampoo. "Whatever it is, I'm here to listen."

It was so utterly odd to have George in this manner. Dream could handle the stutter in his heart, the burn in his lungs, when the George he was with was the George the world got to see. The George that screamed much too loud and much too often; that spoke as much with his hands as he did his mouth; that brushed off his blasé remarks easily with a scoff or a roll of his eyes and that was, honestly, rather crass in all that he said and did. That George? With that George, Dream could pretend he wasn't entirely enraptured.

But this George? This George stole everything that Dream had once known, all of his inhibitions, and cast them to the wind.

This George was polite and quiet and calm. This George, Dream could never guess what was going on behind his eyes and below his throat. This George was caring and warm and so very confident in his advances; was easily open and trusting of Dream; always seemed to simply know what Dream needed and when he needed it. 

This George was very nearly a new person entirely.

This George was for Dream's eyes and ears only, though he didn't know that yet.

"I'm sorry, George." Dream choked, focussing on the way George's fingers worked the conditioner through his hair. "I'm so sorry." George cupped his hands into the water and let it run down over Dream's head, making sure to tilt is back so that no conditioner would get into his eyes.

"What are you sorry for?" He asked, continuing to rinse Dream's hair through.

"This." Dream said weakly. "For ruining your time here because I can't even control my own head." George shook his head. 

"You haven't ruined my time here, Dream. Nothing could ruin my time here as long as you're still with me." He spoke softly. "And it's okay to have feelings, I'm not going to get mad at you for something you can't control." It was silent for a moment. George reached for a body-wash that branded itself as smelling of cinnamon and sandalwood. "What about what you're feeling do you feel out of control of?"

"Everything." Dream managed to push the pained and lost noise down and back into his lungs. "Sometimes I just feel.. empty and sad for no reason. It makes it hard to breathe or eat or do anything. Nothing I do or try to do is enough." He sighed, shuddering as George firmly rubbed the soap into his shoulders and down his back. Dream brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"It's like... I'm never enough. I always could have tried harder or done- been better." George's thumb pressed into a particularly stiff knot in Dream's spine causing him to hiss softly. "But every time I try harder it just... doesn't work and I end up feeling like this again." After working the knot from Dream's back, George's hands grazed up and over his shoulders to his chest. "And it gets in the way of everything because I don't know how to stop feeling like this."

"Because you're overly critical of yourself. You set this standard for everything that you do that not even a superhuman could hope to meet." George began. "But that's not your fault, you've always been like it." He carefully passed the body-wash to Dream after deciding that he really shouldn't go any lower than where his hands were already resting on Dream's stomach.

"You need to lower the bar, Dream, or you'll burn out." Despite his words, George's voice was impossibly kind and gentle "And it's going to take time to learn that you're allowed to make mistakes but I know you and I know that you can do anything that you set your mind to." George shifted to crouch beside the bath, patiently waiting until he caught Dream's gaze. "And I hope you know that there will always be people here for you. That I will always be here for you."

The silence this time was taught with that same tension from beneath that streetlight all that time ago. Dream stared, brows knit and lip pulled beneath a row of white teeth. George waited patiently, the only indication of his nerves being in the way he flexed his fingers over the edge of the bathtub.

"I love you, George"

The words had been said before, a hundred times or more, but they meant something different now. They were stronger, more raw and more truthful. George couldn't describe the ways in which they were different - the subtle inflections in Dream's hoarse tone - but he would forever know that they were there. That they were so painfully clear, it was all that George could do to rock onto his knees and lean over the edge of the bath.

He placed a warm, water-wrinkled hand to Dream's cheek, almost shivering at the way the pads of his fingers heated with Dream's flush. There was no stranger leaving the hotel to interrupt them. No sense of the danger of being caught, of having interpreted the others' advances wrong. There was no excuse, nothing to stop them.

It wasn't how either of them had ever thought it would be - George's lips were still vaguely chapped whereas Dream's were wet from washing - and yet neither could imagine it being any different, nor any better. It was warm and chaste and slow, the careful drag of lips on lips as they finally, finally, addressed that which they'd ignored for far too long.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are open!!
> 
> Yours,  
> Dandelion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!! Thank you for reading :] Please do feel free to leave a request in the comments and I’ll try my hardest to write it to the best of my ability!!  
> Yours,  
> Dandelion


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